


Heart

by xquartermasterx



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Androids, Angst, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Falling In Love, Kissing, Love/Hate, M/M, Possessive James Bond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 19:04:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1522157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xquartermasterx/pseuds/xquartermasterx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skyfall AU → Q is an android<br/>The Quartermaster is an android; he's built of synthetic parts, and complex algorithms. But the heart still beats, and it’s the ｈｅａｒｔ that really matters in the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Never actually written 00Q fanfiction before, plus this is my second fanfiction. (whoop)
> 
> Feel free to leave comments, and kudos; this is a work in progress, and the first chapter is only small because I want to see if people are actually willing to read this, otherwise I shall scrap it.  
> Other chapters should be around 2,000--4,000 words.

Quartermasters were ordinarily human. Q, however, was the exception—and exceptional indeed. His mind could easily be considered as one of the greatest, and although Bond had always had an initial dislike for the hunks of metal, he could not deny that Q knows his stuff. In the first hour upon meeting him the Quartermaster churned out two new systems, and managed to break a string of complex algorithms allowing MI6 access into the world’s most secure facility. An impressive first impression, indeed, but still scathed by the pool of distaste that had settled in Bond's gut. 

The Quartermaster was _still_ viciously typing away at the system even after all that time. Bond looked down at his watch: 2:46 pm. It’d been two hours since his first meeting with the Quartermaster, and spare for the few snarky quips they’d exchanged and the traditional formalities, he still knew absolutely nothing about this… _thing_. He seemed real enough—so much so, that when the lanky man with pale, almost papery skin stepped through the doors he believed him to be entirely human. When Mallory corrected him by uploading Q’s data to the computer (traits, personality, skills) the warm feeling that had initially erupted in his stomach ceased to be and smiles were feigned,  hands shaken and then they were both sent off to work alongside one another until Bond either died (in which case Q would self-destruct) or Q shut down.

“You’re an android.”

Q didn’t look up from his work, because the algorithm he was working on was a particularly complicated one. The muscles (if they even _were_ muscles; Bond didn’t know, and he wasn’t particularly for finding out) tightened as Q froze, his fingers hovering listlessly over the keyboard. From James’ point of view he could see the machine frown, as if it was actually capable of _feeling,_ and eyebrows darted upwards in disbelief.

“Cleverly observed—if not a little basic, 007, considering your track record. Tell me, what else do you know about me?” He still stood facing away, eyes steadily trained on the screen as it flashed with new strings of code. “And please refrain from making any assumptions.”

“That’s it.” Bond feebly scratched the back of his neck; his eyes flitted about, tearing away from Q’s startlingly straight back and his lips quirked into a frown. “M didn’t elaborate. I only know the basics—and now I’m not entirely sure if I _do_ know the basics.”

“I’m _your_ Quartermaster, 007,” he said, _breathing_ like he actually lived.

“And what exactly does that entail? As far as I’m aware, it bears no particular resemblance. You make me clever little gadgets, I destroy them.”

Q shut his eyes, inhaling a sharp breath.

“Not exactly, 007. I’m your Quartermaster, which means I am yours and yours alone. I work for no-one else—unless you command it—and I am programmed to protect you and guide you at all costs.  They also programmed me with the necessary chips for a companion unit.”

Bond’s eyes widened, his mouth opening and then closing again, like a fish.

“And why would they do that?” His voice sounded hoarse; like velvet, stretched over steel.

“An agent’s life is a lonely one,” he replied, eyes solely focused on James’ face. “And as I said; I’m programmed to cater for your every whim. I _am_ your Quartermaster, after all.”

 Could man and machine really work together? In that moment results seemed inconclusive, and Q  turned back to his work and continued working as if nothing had happened. Bond, newly perplexed by his new Quartermaster, turned on his heels and strode away.

(Something started in the pit of his belly, 

                                             and on the back of Q's neck,

                                                                 his owner's name burned. )


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh *shocked noises*
> 
> Um, well, I never exactly expected such a lovely response.
> 
> Thank you to all who are reading!

“A radio…?” 007 turned the earpiece in his hand, eyes burning into Q’s back. “I asked for something else.”

“You asked for _something,_ 007, so I _gave_ you something. You didn’t specify what it was you wanted, “Q replied. His eyes remained piercing the glaring screen; his fingers glided across the keyboard in a swift, hurried motion, and his back muscles tightened like they usually did when Bond addressed him.

“And you’re my Quartermaster. I was expecting you to know what I wanted.”

The bot snorted. “I’m an android, 007, _not_ a mind reader.”

Bond placed the earpiece back with very little care, slamming the lid of the box shut like a petulant child. He frowned, and Q felt a little jolt of electricity through his system.

Q knew bots like him were newly devised things; there were only ten (eleven, including him) in the world, as far as he knew, and they were all far more advanced than any of the other bots. He did not understand, however, why his owner was not pleased with him. M seemed impressed with his talents, Moneypenny cooed and clapped her hands together when she watched him break into systems; colleges of Q Branch stood and watched with awe, their mouths open and gaping, but Bond…

Bond would turn a blind eye. He wouldn’t smile (genuinely, at least), wouldn’t applaud his Quartermaster, wouldn’t offer him the slightest bit of affection—and robots, like Q, were programed to f _eel,_ to _love._ He craved attention from _his_ 007; wanted at least a smile, or a mumble of “thank you”, but none of that ever happened, and he was quite sure they should have been far past the stage of awkward encounters. Q didn’t like the situation, and there were moments when he considered asking if bots could live freely, without the mark of their owner, or could find someone else entirely. He wouldn’t have minded an old man, or woman to keep company; he’d keep them happy with scrabble, and would make them cups of tea. At least they’d _appreciate_ him.

“Well?”  

Q paused, and straightened. His hands hovered over the keyboard, and the pregnant silence that stretched out afterwards irritated him. It never should have been so difficult for bot and master to get on; Bond must have had some sort of vendetta against bots.

“Well, what?” Bond absently replied. His eyes narrowed as Q turned to face him.

“…Nothing.”

“Stop being so _bloody_ difficult, Q. I can hardly work with you if you’re going to give me just one-worded replies.”

The bot jerked himself away from the desk violently, as if he’d been shot with a jolt of electricity. _I can hardly work with you—_ it was, to say the least, a terrifying sentence to erupt from the lips of a bot’s master. Q-Bot had been alive, so to speak, for five months. In that time he had acquired a love for life and even some of the people in it (Moneypenny, and M—plus Gary, from I.T) and had absolutely no desire to be torn away from his job or the technology he’d worked so hard on, only to be stored away in some dark cupboard (unaware, too, because his system would have been dismantled. He’d only be a lifeless, metal corpse left to rot whilst everybody forgot him, and Bond acquired a new Quartermaster).

Anyone would have said he was overreacting when he slumped behind the desk, eyes languidly looking over his owner with considerable offense. But they didn’t understand—couldn’t, actually. There was a special chip inside him, like those other ten bots, that meant he held a special preference for his owner. It made him crave affection, attention—so to be told there was a possibility of, essentially, the end of his life, was a terrible thing. He wondered how humans survived with the emotions they had been born with. Unlike him, they couldn’t uninstall them, or pick and choose.

Bond, on the other hand, didn’t notice. Q had the sneaky suspicion that he wouldn’t have cared, either. In the months that had passed James Bond regarded him with so little, he often grew panicky and paranoid; obsessed with the idea that one day he would be discarded, and was forever condemned to be unable to please his owner.

That’s _all_ he wanted to do, he told himself as he sat staring at Bond; to please his master.

“Q.”

Narrowed eyes averted from the steely, rugged face of 007 to focus solely on the technology they so loved to look at. His thin, long fingers (metal, covered in soft, synthetic skin and with specially crafted bones, muscles and veins to make him appear more human) came to tug at his cardigan.

“007,” he acknowledged.

“…Am I right in thinking the radio can transmit anywhere, at any time?”

The Quartermaster looked up, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. _Ah. So he **had** listened. _

“Indeed,” he confirmed, nodding.  “And if you bring it back to me unscathed, I shall make you a new gun complete with uranium bullets.”

The Double-O agent’s eyes crinkled as he smiled (genuinely, too), and he nodded before replying: “I can’t make any promises. I might not return."

“You will return.” There was an awkward pause, and Q swallowed the words he meant to say. “I’m bloody brilliant at getting you out of sticky situations, 007. And, besides; if you try and take the transmitter off, I will find you. You can bathe yourself, try to rip the transmitter from yourself, but I will find you.”

“Alright…I suppose.”

Q took that. And the short, strange look 007 offered him. He twisted them both in his mind until they became a smile, and a word of thanks. In his mind he saw a twinkle of affection from Bond’s blue eyes, and continued to do so even when Bond abruptly turned and walked from the room.

The Q-Bot thought 007 _knew_ about bots and their owners, plus the special extras that came on the side. He wondered if he should tell him about the fact that if Bond goes missing, a little light goes off in his head, and he then becomes obsessed with finding the man. He wonders if he should tell him that his system will automatically go into overdrive, and will sift through endless coordinates and CCTV footage until he finds his master.

But he didn’t. And Q turned back to his computer, making sure he looked thoroughly engrossed in his coding.

* * *

 

Two weeks later Q’s system woke with a shock. M stood in front of him, holding the charging leads, a look of complete and utter impatience on his face. Most members of Q Branch were afraid of M; not Q, though. He knew that under that stern expression was a gentle man, who cared for all agents under his command—despite instructions not to get too attached to anyone.

M sighed deeply as he threw the cables on the floor, ignoring Q’s silent protests, and gestured for the bot to remove himself from his charging station. Mallory wouldn’t admit it, but Q looked almost ethereal when he had found him. His eyes, framed by thick black glasses were shut and his chin pointed upwards, accentuating his sharp cheekbones. Under the blue lights he looked almost like an angel—but that was the case with bots like Q. They were designed to look aesthetically pleasing, and to be charming so they would appeal to their owners. Not only was it his job to please Bond in regards to field assistance, but also emotionally, and more often than not, sexually. But Mallory knew things had been tough between the two; he’d heard Bond admonish the man cruelly once or twice, and once Q even asked M if he could ever be free. Mallory would have taken it upon himself to help the two, but he knew things would get better soon.

The bot’s eyes snapped open; the mouth, once crooked, was pressed into a thin line and his pale features twisted into something akin to surprise.

“I’m not fully charged. I thought there were rules against that.”

 If it hadn’t have been an emergency, Mallory would have waited a while longer.

“It’s Bond,” his boss replied, running a hand across his shaven jawline. “He’s missing.”

“Or just messing you lot about,” Q corrected. “I should know. He is _connected_ to me, after all—and nothing has alerted me. Are you sure you can’t trace him?”

Mallory frowned, opening the doors with a swipe of his card. “We’ve tried. Lord knows we have, Q, but we can’t find him. The radio transmitter was destroyed, and his trail has disappeared.”

The bot’s fingers twitched as an electrical current buzzed through them, and he knew, and was certain, that Bond was still alive. He didn’t know how to describe the feeling; it was electrical, buzzing, and painful—but not painful enough to warrant concern. He knew, also, that he had more than enough battery to last him, so he assured Mallory he could find the Double-o agent—and that if he failed, he might as well be dissembled. If he couldn’t even trace his own partner there would be absolutely no point in his existence. No matter how much he detested the very core of his existence relying on being needed by 007, Q was not prepared to let him down.

Ten minutes later and he’d found him somewhere in Malta.

“007 it isn’t nice to disappear without a proper goodbye. Everyone’s shitting themselves.”

From the other side of the line Bond was between grunting and chuckling, the rustle of his clothes crackling through the silence. Q was sure the agent raised an eyebrow.

“I had no idea you were able to use profanities,” Bond said, teeth gritted. “I thought they might have balked at that very idea.”

“It wouldn’t be entirely convincing if I didn’t swear,” Q sighed, “I am supposed to be indistinguishable from humans, after all.”

There was silence from Bond’s side; Q frowned as the chatter of his minions broke that silence, and stormed into his office, laptop carefully tucked under the crook of his arm. He needed to ensure that Bond could be heard clearly; it sounded like the agent was injured, and all that grunting was already making it very difficult to understand what exactly he was moaning about.

“…007? Can you hear me, 007…?”

More silence and Q began to worry. It was only natural, after all.

“007 if you think this is funny and I find you’ve got that God-awful shit-eating grin on your face, I’ll hack into your files and mess about with them.” If he was really injured, he’d reply. “ _007…?”_

A sharp breath, and then: “Yes—argh. Yes. I can bloody hear you… Q.”

“I’m calling for assistance.”

He didn’t sound too good. Q had never known him when he was injured—he wasn’t even a single strand of code, let alone existing—but he did know that Bond had an affinity for slipping out of the clutches of medical and running away to patch himself up ( _With dental floss_ , Q remembered, scrunching up his face as he sent an urgent message to medical. _Fucking dental floss_ ).

“I need you to keep talking to me. Can you do that?”

“I’ve been shot,” Bond grunted in reply, “I'm not mute.”

 _Ah. Good to see he’s retained that sense of humour, then._ “Good; you’re still a rude shit. Keep insulting me, then, it seems to be enjoyable for you.”

In the dark dusty cellar Bond frowned, his blood covered fingers pressing down harder on the open wound. Some of the blood had formed a puddle on the floor, and as he looked at it, he couldn’t help but wonder if it was, truly, the end. And so was that how he was going to die, with a fucking bot by his side?

“ _Fuck you_ ,” he simply hissed, head lolled to one side. His lips quivered slightly as Q launched into a scathing attack about disrespect, and how he shouldn’t expect any gadgets when he returned, and Bond just sighed.

Most agents turned off their radio transmitter when they were dying—not for Q, but for that decent bit of privacy they deserved. Q had witnessed only one death since his role as Quartermaster began, and the screams and cries of the agent were recorded, safely tucked away for future reference. For days after that, despite the fact the agent had cut him off from the sounds of him gargling blood and grit, Q relayed the message again and again in the emptiness of his chambers. It bounced off the walls, filled his ears with guilt, and since then Q had panicked. He couldn’t bear the thought of having to listen to James die, and wondered if he should ask him to disconnect.

But he wasn’t sure if he could do that—leave him to die, alone, without anyone to (metaphorically speaking) hold him. It was part of his nature, his programming; he had to be there until the very end.

“…007?”

“ _Bond_.” The agent hesitated for a moment, but soon after growled:” Call me Bond, just once Q. I’m fucking sick of hearing you whimper _007_ into my ear.”

“Glad to know you’re still with us, Bond. Medical should be there in five. Do you think you can hold on?”

The blood, wet and glistening, dropped from his fingers as he lifted them towards the light to examine. Yes, he’d been shot many times before—had the scars to prove it, and everything—but this? This was something else. They’d beaten him, tortured him, and _then_ shot him. He was tired from being awake 24 hours, grumpy from being starved of food for three days, and now, to top it all off, he had a bot, of _all_ living things, talking to him like he was a child.

He didn’t want to die; not like this.

“No idea. Why, have you got some other attributes that come with your program that I should know about? Could you operate telepathically?”

“Unfortunately not.” Q wet his lips. “I—I am trying everything to get you back safely, 00—Bond. I’m trying my best.”

There was a long, painful grunt that burst from Bond’s lips, and the agent writhed in agony. He had no clue why the bot was so obsessed with him; Mallory had only told him it would make him gadgets—although that hadn’t proved entirely true, as the machine insisted it was its _brain_ that was the weapon—and would safely guide him through the field. Up until now he’d done a good job—although, Bond _was_ drugged, angry at Q for being a bot and bleeding all over the floor. Of course he was bound to blame the Q-Bot. It was force of habit.

“Why does it matter so much?”

“Pardon?”

“I—ngh. I—I’m trying to stay awake, Q, just answer the bloody question and stop playing the fool.” He bled more. “ _Why_ does it matter so much to you?”

“Because I’m your Quartermaster, 007. I—it just does. We’re connected, in a way.”

“Any way we could disconnect?”

Q swallowed, tearfully staring at his laptop’s screen. The flashing dot that represented 007 dimmed for a moment, causing his synthetic heart to go mental, before it was joined by others— _medical_.

“You would have to die,” he whispered, listening as Bond was hauled to his feet. “When you die I either self-destruct, depending on the bond, or they disassemble me. Or…I could self-destruct.”

“Q…”

“…007?”

The line went dead.

* * *

 

They only let him through to the ward because M had allowed for special reasons (of which he wouldn’t disclose, not even to Q). And when Q found Bond he didn’t expect for the sharp, stabbing sensation to start coursing through his system. As his eyes languidly looked over the battered and bruised zombie-like face, synthetic eyes blinked back bitter, angry tears.

“007.” He spoke gently, as if frightened of waking the man, and stretched out his fingers as to touch his owner, before moving them away and fiddling with the charts at the end of the bed instead.

_007: Bullet wound to the chest. Broken ribs. Two dislocated fingers. Dislocated Jaw. Bruising to the chest._

\--All things that wouldn’t have mattered, had they sent Q in instead of Bond. He could have easily been repaired because it takes quite a lot of strength to smash a bot up. And then Q began to wonder, because his system allowed him to (almost) freely think, if Mallory would consider sending a bot out into the field, instead of a human. Agents like Bond were indispensable to England—so why couldn’t’ bots be, too? Yes, there was actually such a thing as a hate group for bots. They were based in London, too, because that’s where the majority of bots served. He remembered seeing an article from about a month ago; a male bot had been found dismembered—his wires and chips scattered across London, his head smashed to pieces against a wall. But…hate groups didn’t always have to prevent someone from living their life to the best they could, did they? It was just rules.

Bots had rights, but fewer than humans. As he sat there with 007 for hours on end, he researched deep into the government’s system, taking a look at what it was bots could and couldn’t do—and, according to stats, bots had more rights than they had when they were first invented. Several rules had been put out of action (rumour had it that Mallory was close to a certain government official—a Mr. Mycroft Holmes—and had taken the liberty to get them wiped out. And others say he’d taken a bot as his lover). But the rules that existed presently formed a bubbling, sharp pain to arise where his gut should be, and his hands to tremble.

Because it turned out that he couldn’t engage self-destruct _unless_ the information was at danger, and unless his owner commanded it. There were a lot of things bots couldn’t do without their owner’s command, too; things like living freely, or living without their owner. Bots weren’t allowed to purchase their own homes (unless their owner’s co-owned it), weren’t allowed high-end jobs (Q was the exception, then, because he’d been specifically designed, like it stated you needed to be in order to attain said jobs), and couldn’t take anyone else but their owner (i.e would be destroyed if having found someone else they wanted to work for, or had fallen in love/started relations with anyone _but_ the person who owned them). And Q decided, after two hours of sitting and contemplating whether or not to hack into his own system and self-destruct, that perhaps staying so close to 007 wasn’t a very good idea…

“Q…”

But doubt could wait.

“007. You’re awake.”

There was a rough, crackly chuckle that slipped through the agent's cracked lips, and the human rubbed his cut temple vigorously.

“And you’re still stating the obvious, then.”

“I know,” Q smiled, handing Bond a glass of water. “You like it when I do that.”

“How’d you…? Actually, no. Don’t be so bloody ridiculous, Q, I don’t—“

“—Yes you do.” The Quartermaster remained rigid, his expression insistent as his eyes roamed over James’ slumped form. “I stored it in my memory. I do that with everything you like, and don’t like. I aim to please.” He blushed at the absurdness of the words, brushing a few stray curls from his face.

And then Bond smiled, the usual shit-eating grin, and handed back the glass of water. His eyes were blue and eyelids were decorated with bruises; and bore into Q’s strait-laced face.

“Then please me,” he mumbled, “by taking me for a piss.”

“Your reputation is known. Has been, actually, from the moment they uploaded me.” The bot’s eyes blinked, solely focused on the empty space behind James and sought anything but him. “In other words; I’m not a gullible idiot, and am not about to help you escape.”

A moan slipped through the agent’s lips, and Q felt a tingle of electricity in his arm. Once he thought it could have been a malfunction—they were quite common, after all—but it only ever occurred when strong feelings burst into his system. Perhaps they were overwhelming.  And yes, he only aimed to please his owner, but at the same time he knew he couldn’t please him if he was dying or dead, so stood from the hard chair before his emotions got the better of him.

“Where are you going?”

Q blinked. “Why…do you care?”

“I’m bored.”

“Liar.”

“And so are you,” James laughed, his lips quirking upwards. “A very, very shitty liar.”

“How…How am I a liar?” Q breathed through his nose; trying to remain calm (His systems had no idea as to where this was leading).  

“I asked you why it mattered, and you replied with all that ‘we’re connected’ bullshit.” His fingers itched for a trigger to pull; he hadn’t pulled one in weeks, thanks to his captors, and he didn’t want his skills to get rusty—that and he was completely and utterly pissed with everything.

“It’s not bullshit,” Q argued, wondering why he was feeling so defensive all of a sudden. “We just are—were, from the moment they created me and uploaded me. I can’t help it.”

And then, just to prove his sodding point, Q turned so his back was facing Bond. Thin fingers tugged at the unruly hair covering his neck, and revealed a small, unmistakable mark that read: Property of James Bond.

And then Bond felt an odd sensation brewing in the pit of his stomach, and suddenly decided he didn’t want Q to be near him anymore—let alone be in the same building. When had he ever asked for a bot, exactly? He didn’t remember ever asking, considering the fact he despised bots…Yet why was it, when he looked at Q, most of the anger subsided?

No matter. He waved it away, along with Q who rolled his eyes and obediently stalked away.

They were both really quite shit at this.


End file.
